Water Guardian
by TolkienScribe
Summary: During the reign of Aragorn, a cult of religious fanatics that worshiped the darkness of Mordor rose from the ashes. After Eldarion was crowned, the seemingly harmless cult turned into something much worse and now threatens the very foundations of the kingdom. Prequel to "New Shadow". Part of Green Leaves universe. In progress.


**Water Guardian**

 **Summary** : During the reign of Aragorn, a cult of religious fanatics that worshiped the darkness of Mordor rose from the ashes. After Eldarion was crowned, the seemingly harmless cult turned into something much worse and now threatens the very foundations of the kingdom.

 **Disclaimer:** Not one belief.

 **Rating:** T for war and death.

All of my stories are interconnected unless stated otherwise but you do not have to read one to understand the other.

My stories are now available in the form of a list in chronological sequence on my bio.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 _Minas Tirith,_

 _Fourth Age,_

 _Reign of King Eldarion,_

A blissful morning was not a good time to read sobering reports.

"They are getting out of hand," he remarked. Barahir looked up, and nodded silently in agreement. Some said he went after his father and grandfather when it came to his personality. Barahir was a man of many thoughts and little words. It was often said that he guarded his tongue more than his heirlooms, his inheritance and his family. It made him valuable, in Eldarion's opinion. The Man easily kept secrets and was always unwilling to surrender them.

In looks, he resembled his mother more. Elboron, like Faramir, married a woman from Rohan and Barahir was the result. His hair was the colour of boiled sugar; light brown with golden streaks. His eyes were grey and his beard was the same in colour as his hair. He was tall, because both of his parents were tall and of an average build when it came to his muscles. Barahir never favoured the sword; he was more adept with a spear and bow.

"It seems that they are," Barahir answered.

"Every day, something new happens," Eldarion continued. "This cult is beginning to get on my nerves."

Many would say people of religion were of peace and tranquility and Eldarion found it to be indeed true. But what does one say when they worship darkness like Sauron, or consider the Orcs some form of smaller deities? What does one do, when boys played wearing masks that resembled Orcs and eventually joined the quickly growing cult?

He knew something had to be done.

Eldarion's musings were interrupted with a brisk knock on the door. Barahir called the person to enter. It was a young man, dressed in the habit of a scholar's apprentice, bearing a tall stack of neatly arranged parchments. Barahir took it from him before dismissing him.

He placed a stack of parchments in front of him.

"You asked for these," he said. Eldarion stared at the pile with trepidation. He had indeed. The scent of preserving herbs came strongly from the pile. Most of the parchments were yellowed with age but otherwise were in good condition. He reached forward and pulled them close before settling down for reading.

Halfway through the pile, Eldarion read with gritted teeth. They were in fact reports, written long ago by both Faramir and Legolas. This was not the first time he read them. His father forced him to, when he came of age.

They were grim.

Legolas' fluent writing left little to imagination. His precise wording and long descriptions made it seem as if Eldarion himself witnessed the events. Faramir was softer; his wording was more ambiguous. Both of them considered the cult a threat that would only grow in time.

"Do you remember Ithilien when the Elves were there?" Eldarion asked. Barahir only gave him a look. Of course, the Steward did. All of them, including Barahir's father Elboron, rode on the shoulders of Elves when they were children.

It was odd that it was so long ago.

"Legolas speaks of an Elf-woman, Arodis-" Eldarion began.

"She was Dorián's wife, who was Legolas' closest friend." Barahir answered.

"Did you know her?"

"Aye. But it was long ago. I barely remember her."

Eldarion wracked his brain but he did not remember Arodis. He did, however, remember Dorián. The Elf was one of Legolas' closest friends, with heavy black locks falling over his shoulders and a broader build when compared to Legolas. He had an air of mischief, even though it was largely dampened by fatherhood.

The reports were grim. They narrated their foul practices, and how they endangered the Elves who came to live in Ithilien. Elves were immortal, untouched by illness and hardy against long permanent injury. The entire cult was built on sacrifices and somehow the belief of how an Elf sacrificed for a purpose started. Arodis was pregnant at the time, and she among three other Ellyth were captured on their way to Minas Tirith and held for sacrifice.

It was nauseating to read further. The Elves found the cult's hideout quickly, but not quick enough. Arodis managed to escape with her life and the life of her unborn child. The same cannot be said for her companions. Two of the Ellyth were killed, and their unborn children ripped from their bodies as sacrifice. Eldarion felt bile rise in his throat. The children were meant to be... Eaten.

He pushed the report roughly back into the pile.

Eldarion looked away, troubled. His father kept a tight rein and a firm hand on the cult but it grew at an alarming rate soon after his father's death. When Legolas set sail, he begged him to take his mother's handmaidens beyond the Sea, fearing he was incapable of protecting Elves under his reign.

He was right.

The Elven domain in Ithilien Forest, the place where Eldarion played for many years, turned into a shrine. They mocked the Elves like Orcs would, chanted prayers in the Black Speech and considered Orcs refined versions of Elves. Orcs were minor deities, according to these fanatics, and Sauron was the All-Powerful. Their hold was strong and it grew every day.

And they were far too close to Minas Tirith for comfort.

He heard other whispers, the kind he wished were not true. He still did not know how true such whispers were. He heard this cult had connections with Umbar, and may be more than simply people of religion; he heard they were plotting to break the Kingdom in pieces.

The spymaster found nothing yet for these rumours, but Eldarion was sure he would not be surprised if he did.

"They were trouble from the moment they sprouted in Gondor," Eldarion declared. He sat back in his chair. "Then why did my father did not have them killed immediately?"

"That is not how the world works," Barahir explained. "How will the rest of your subjects will see you if you swoop down on a band of unarmed followers of a faith without any cause? Would you turn martyrs out of them? Because that is exactly what will happen. And in doing so, you would rule with fear and hatred rather than with loyalty and compassion."

"Sometimes fear and hatred serves a better purpose." Eldarion muttered. Barahir looked at him sharply. The King noticed and tutted in exasperation.

"Oh, be at peace," Eldarion added quickly. "I am simply pondering aloud." Barahir did not look completely assured, but he returned to his work nevertheless.

The cult had no name, and if they even called themselves something, then it was a secret they did not share with outsiders. They first sprang into existence along the border they shared with Mordor. The caves along the borders were their perfect places for worship. When they gained more followers, they travelled town to town, city to city to preach their views. That was when Aragorn set strict laws concerning them, knowing that things could easily get out of hand.

And it did. After the incident of the Ellyth's capture, the cult fled to the coastline and lived there in quiet. Aragorn soon turned his attention to other matters and unrest quickly died down. Soon, it was all forgotten.

But not completely. Aragorn never forgot. And he made sure Eldarion was well aware of them. But people, it seemed, forgot easily the wrongs they were done and quickly trust the danger again. Peace was interrupted. The cult gained followers slowly at first, soon after he was crowned. Now they gained followers by the tens, come every month.

And what exasperated Eldarion even more was that he knew little to nothing. The cult was secretive, and did not step out into the open to preach in places like the marketplaces and such. No, they gathered followers in the night, in homes and small, unassuming places, among those who lost their loved ones, wealth, and property or were wronged in any way. It was dangerous; such people quickly considered the law as harmful and turned their attentions on a revolution. Eldarion knew he faced a growing problem.

But how was he to control it? He knew nothing about them but reports that were too old. And his spies brought little to no information, because they were unwelcome in the innermost circles of the cult. So Eldarion's knowledge was as sparse as a peasant's. And while Eldarion and Barahir were aware of what the cult was capable of, the council was harder to convince. Eldarion was not sure if he could abuse his power to achieve the desired effect. No, he needed more.

"There is nothing I can do about them," Eldarion remarked. "Not until I have evidence for plain eyes rather than rumours."

"Adrahil would know more," Barahir commented. The name made Eldarion wary. Adrahil was the Prince of Dol Amroth, a young man because his father married later in his years. He was Alphros' grandson, and while loyal to the kingdom, he had the uncanny knack of crawling under Eldarion's skin. Barahir was well aware of Eldarion's feelings. In fact, Eldarion was sure his thoughts about Adrahil were legendary in all circles of society.

"He does," Barahir insisted as soon as he sensed Eldarion's hesitation. "Once the cult found their home along the coastline of Gondor, Adrahil made it a mission to keep an eye on them personally. He knows more about their beliefs and practices than any other Gondorian."

"And who is to say that he will answer me if I call for him?" Eldarion said with a snort. Barahir did not answer. Instead, he looked at him with steady eyes. Eldarion sighed. Barahir possessed the silent nature of an advisor, capable of influencing decisions with few words and well-placed silence. Faramir, son of Denethor, gifted his intelligence and personality to his line before leaving the world.

"He answers his King." Barahir reproached him neutrally. Eldarion laughed.

"He answers himself." Eldarion corrected. "But then he lives by the Sea. And he is just as untamable." There was something in his voice, like an odd acceptance of Adrahil's antics mixed with exasperation. Barahir smiled a little, instantly understanding the King. Eldarion knew he was amused

"I will send summons for the Prince." Barahir remarked and busied himself immediately. Eldarion stared at him and then shook his head. It baffled him how much Barahir understood him, far better than Elboron ever did.

The days passed with little event while they waited for Adrahil's arrival. He met with the spymaster Húrin, a wizened old man with muscular frame in spite of his years and a heavy set jaw with bushy eyebrows over a pair of blue eyes. He was his most trustworthy spymaster, who took the office as a middle aged Man. Eldarion took a liking to him. His methods, although conventional, were effective.

"If you are here about the cult, then I am afraid I do not have anything new to tell you." Húrin spoke after greetings were exchanged.

"That is not good news," Eldarion remarked. "Come on, my man, there must be something."

Húrin smiled wryly at Eldarion's encouragement and shook his head.

"Nay, truly I have nothing." Húrin answered. "The cult has its own guards, servants and such. Their followers are secretive of their practices. I cannot send a man within their ranks without entertaining the danger of them being found out." Eldarion understood the silent implications in his remark. A spy planted in the cult by the King would reflect badly on Eldarion as well as the spymaster. The damage would be great as the people would grow mistrustful and discontent.

"Come on," Eldarion coaxed. "There must be something else that you could do for me. There are rumours that the cult has some powerful friends in Umbar. Is it true?" Húrin brightened.

"I do not know. But I will find out." Húrin said with a single earnest nod. Eldarion smiled.

"Thank you." Eldarion crossed his arms. Húrin peered at him before shuffling a pile together.

"How are things?" Húrin asked. "Does being a king meets up to the dreams you had as a boy?" Eldarion laughed.

"Aside from the cult, being a king is woefully bland." Eldarion agreed. "Father took care of everything. I barely have anything to do." Húrin's smile faltered.

"Be grateful for what you have," Húrin said gravely. "You do not know what the world was like back then."

"You remember what it was like before the Dark Lord was defeated?" Eldarion asked. Húrin shook his head.

"I was only a boy of four summers back then. But I remember everything else." Húrin waved a scroll at Eldarion. "It is easier for you."

Eldarion smiled and said nothing.

During the night, Eldarion glanced at his reflection in the mirror. It was as if time slowed down for him and hastened the deaths of his fellow age-mates. Elfwine was the first of them to die, and Elboron lived long enough to oversee his coronation and the first ten years of his rule. But Eldarion aged slowly. He was still hale, as if his body was nourished by something more than just food and drink. His hair was black, with very few streaks of grey. Wrinkles began to appear on the outer corners of his eyes and little around his mouth. His beard still grew, flecked with grey as it was. Grim, pale grey eyes met his reflection in the mirror. Eldarion's frown deepened into many creases.

He probably looked like his father, when the Fellowship was forged.

Eldarion shook his head and continued to prepare for bed.

LINE BREAK

Dreams did not come easily to Eldarion.

He found himself standing on a beach, the waves lazily lapping at his bare feet. But soon the waves grew more violent. The water turned dark and turgid. The skies clouded with angry black clouds. Thunder rolled, and white lightning flashed in the belly of the clouds. Eldarion stepped back hesitantly. The waves followed him. He ran as fast as he could deep into the land and the waves followed him, until all the land was consumed by water. Eldarion went under the waves and he inhaled water into his lungs. He flayed wildly, his arms trying to reach the surface but it was in vain. Something pulled him down, dragging him deep into the unknown depths of the Sea.

At last his feet hit the bed of the Sea but then the scenery changed.

He stood in the Citadel, with the gleaming sun above him. He looked up, and white branches shaded him from the sun. He peered at the White Tree, the one his father planted so many years ago. The leaves were shed, and the flowers were gone. The sky darkened, and the sun was shrouded by clouds. The White Tree slowly turned black, the smooth stem and branches shriveled and devoid of life. A single black flower bloomed directly above him.

He heard his mother's voice in his ear, soft and caressing, "the Dark Tree must be cut from its roots."

He nearly shot straight up from the bed, but his wife's familiar weight against his side kept him still. He glanced down at her, a young woman who had yet to give him children, fast asleep and blissfully unaware at her husband's unease. Eldarion lay still for a moment, and then delicately extricated himself from her embrace. She did not stir as he left their bed. He sought refuge on the balcony, with cool glass of water in his hand.

He had waking dreams soon after he reached manhood. Neither of his parents had them, but his mother often told him that his uncles Elrohir and Elladan were sometimes plagued by them.

Waking dreams were not always what they seemed at first. Some visions showed things that will never come to pass; others showed that which may come to pass if certain decisions were made and the rest were the kind that will come to pass no matter what choices were taken.

Dreams were filled with symbolic meanings. A tree or plant, or sun or moon in a dream was not always what they seemed. He was sure of one thing about his dream; dangerous times were ahead. He was not sure what form or how.

He heard a sleepy murmur from the darkness of his bedroom.

"What is it?" His wife asked him softly. Eldarion glanced over his shoulder.

"Nothing," he answered soothingly. "Go back to sleep." The sheets rustled and soon his wife appeared in her red dressing gown. Eldarion rumbled a laugh.

"I thought wives were meant to obey their husbands." Eldarion teased, drawing her into his embrace with a single arm around her shoulders.

"Wives are also meant to look after their husbands and stop them from fretting." She retorted.

"I never fret."

"Aye," she argued with a smile. "You do."

"Alwen-"

"If you think that I will retire to bed just because you order me, then you will have to think again." Alwen answered with a smile. "Come to bed, if you will not tell me what worries you."

"My worries are too heavy for someone like you." Eldarion said ruefully.

"Ah, yes," Alwen sighed. "You are old and weary, like an Elf with a mortal life. How can I ever compare myself?"

"Sarcasm does not suit you."

"Hm, it does not suit anyone."

They laughed quietly and Alwen rested her head on his chest. A cool wind blew on their faces.

"Tell me," she whispered. "What worries you?"

"I already gave you my answer."

"No, you parried. That is different."

Eldarion threw back his head and laughed. He set down his goblet and embraced his wife.

"I did right by marrying you." Eldarion said affectionately.

"That is one choice I will not argue with." Alwen replied. Eldarion absently stroked her hair.

"Is this about the religious followers?" Alwen asked. Eldarion started and pulled her away just enough to look down at her face.

"How do you know about this?" He asked with a deep-seated frown.

"Rumours are spreading." Alwen explained. "The servants are whispering and the nobles are gossiping. Whatever it is, it must be dealt with."

"I agree," Eldarion muttered. Alwen hugged him.

"But for now, let us sleep."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

This is a direct prequel to the _"New Shadow"_ , an unpublished sequel that Tolkien worked on and later abandoned. As a result, I took a few liberties.

Do not worry, this is an extremely short story. (Honest. No large sagas here. :P)

This takes place roughly 115 years later after the destruction of Barad-dur.

 **Eldarion** : I imagine him with longer lifespan than expected, considering his father had mixed blood one side, and his mother is an Elf on the other (even if her lineage has mixed blood).

 **Elboron:** It is quite possible that he served Eldarion when he inherited the throne. It does not specify when he dies, so in my story, he dies roughly 20 years later after Eldarion became king.

 **Barahir:** He is either the son or the nephew of Elboron. Here, in my story, he is his firstborn son.

 **Adrahil:** Alphros' son is not mentioned in Tolkien's works, so I gave him a name, did a little calculation and placed Adrahil as Alphros' grandson.

Do leave a review!

P.S. The unnamed noble who left a part of his manor unguarded and open for anyone who needed money is based on a historical Muslim governor.


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